The Weave

The boxes line the curb like heavy blocks.

Mrs. Gable’s life is packed in tape.

We’re moving lamps and old, ceramic clocks,

trying to give the memory a shape.

I grabbed the wicker basket by the side,

but the weave was tired, dry, and thin.

The bottom went. The towels began to slide,

and a needle of the wood went in.

It’s buried deep beneath the callus now,

a sharp reminder of the things that break.

We leave the house because we don't know how

to carry all the weight we take.